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by SabbyWrites



Series: Death Note Renaissance [2]
Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Abstract, Character Death, Dialogue Heavy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Other, Smoking, Spoilers, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SabbyWrites/pseuds/SabbyWrites
Summary: Matt's only right about half the time.





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**Author's Note:**

> death note renaissance going strong babey
> 
> based on my personal headcanon that matt is a recovering alcoholic, and that he'd be adamant that someone he loves not be involved in dangerous shit if they don't have to be
> 
> xx sab

The apartment door swings open just as Wario wails, coins flying from his pockets as you lose your final heart and are booted back to the start screen.

You hear the thud of a bag on the floor, accompanied by a muffled sigh as one of your roommates discards his shoes in the entryway. You hesitate on the start screen as you flick your eyes to the plastic clock hanging above the television. Half past one. Being home this early isn’t a great sign.

“G’morning.” You offer, careful to make your voice even, lest you accidentally startle whichever of the two has finally returned from-- you’re not quite sure, actually. They’d been discussing their plans in low, hushed voices earlier. You hadn’t caught any of it, though you suppose Mello and Matt ensure that on purpose. The fewer the people that can have information extracted from them, the better.

“Mornin’.” Matt. His voice tells you the same thing that the early hour does.

You wriggle around for a moment before you sit up again, peering over the back of the couch as Matt tosses his keys onto the table in the kitchenette, his medallion keychain rattling against the plastic veneer as he sighs again. His goggles come next, placed with more care than the keys, and then he’s fishing around in his pockets for what you know must be his cigarettes. He catches your eye as he pops the filtered end between his lips.

“What’re you doing up?” He says, though he doesn’t sound particularly shocked at the fact that you still seem wide awake. The early hours of the morning aren’t new to you, with your line of work; the question seems intended to keep the conversation going more than an attempt at getting you to sleep.

“Wario Land Four.” You say, holding up your DS for emphasis. Matt nods once, a mix of approval and recognition.

“Nice. You still stuck on the Golden Diva?”

“Always.” You sigh, slumping back onto the couch. Matt steps closer, attention diverted from his cigarette for a moment so that he can rest his elbows on the back of the seat. You blink up at him, fingers hesitating over the SELECT button on the main menu.

“You alright?” You ask. He shrugs.

 “I guess.” He brings his lighter to the end of his cigarette and flicks it on, the flame dancing for just a moment until he’s inhaling sharply and exhaling a stream of smoke. You grab the ashtray from the coffee table and hand it to him, garnering a muttered ‘thanks’ in return. For a moment, the apartment is silent.

“Go on, then.” He says, gesturing with his head to your DS. You tut at him, once, before you select the final boss again and turn your attention to the screen.

“Y’know,” you say, “I’m just going to lose again. And then you’ll be forced to talk to me about what you guys have been up to.”

“You say that like talkin’ to you is a chore.” He says. You can almost hear his brows pinch a little as he watches you, flicking ash into the ashtray. On screen, you use the mallet discarded by the Diva to compress Wario, lunging at her weak point. You miss by a second. “Yikes.”

You make another tutting sound, though this time out of annoyance at the game rather than with Matt. He snorts, shaking his head as he exhales another line of smoke from the side of his mouth.

“You’ve been working on this for what-- five? Six?-- days.” He notes. You roll your eyes.

“Whatever.”

“Just making an observation.”

“Unneeded!” 

“I think you’d be better off sticking to normal difficulty. Dunno why you keep choosing expert.”

“Well I need to do _something_ worthwhile, yeah?”

Matt catches your irritation as plain as day. You’re not sure if you wanted him to.

“You feeling bitter tonight?”

You don’t see the point in lying. “Hell yeah I am.”

“Me too.” He flicks away more ash, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as he quirks a brow down at you. You try not to have your eyes linger for too long on the way the light from the lamp in the corner illuminates every sharp plane of his face. If he notices, he doesn’t seem to be in the mood to call out the blatant sexual tension. “But don’t give yourself that shit. You do plenty of worthwhile stuff.”

“Like what, Matt?” Wario gets impaled by the spikes on the little green enemy that the Diva tosses at him. Two hearts left.

“I dunno. Really cool of you to do our laundry and stuff.”

He chuckles at the dry glare you shoot him.

“Cleaning crusty blood out of your jeans is hardly worth bragging rights.”

“Well neither is botching a surveillance operation. Or only being right, like, half the time with anything you do.” Matt says.

Your interest is piqued. Wario eats shit again. The _bum-bum, bum-bum_ that signifies his imminent death is too loud. You instinctively fight the urge to toss your DS at the wall.

“Amane get away from you?”

“Something like that.” He mutters, in a way that indicates he won’t say anything more on the matter.

“Can’t tell me about it?”

“Don’t wanna.” He stubs out his cigarette and lights another. “You’ve already got a target on your back. I don’t fancy makin’ it any bigger by feeding you information you don’t need.”

You sigh as Wario dies. You stare at the start screen for a moment, debating how seriously you want to talk to Matt about your feelings, before turning your DS off and putting it on the coffee table. Pulling your legs towards yourself, you gesture to the now-vacant space on the sofa. Matt hesitates for a second before shrugging again, swinging around the side of the couch and settling down next to you. You sling your legs into his lap, and he gives you another raised-brow look. You hold his stare for a moment too long.

“I’m starting to think you guys only keep me around as a laundry bitch.”

“Can’t say that isn’t a bonus.”

Matt offers you a cigarette. You accept, allowing him to light it for you. It’s impossible to miss the way he focuses on your mouth. You take a drag, leaning back on the arm of the sofa as you hold the smoke between your index and middle finger. Matt’s free hand slowly comes down to rest on your shin, warm and large and calloused-feeling even through the fabric of your pajama pants.

“Y’know,” you say after a moment, “I’m inclined to believe Mello isn’t the one making the executive decisions around here.”

“Bullshit.” Matt snorts, cigarette wiggling precariously between his lips.

“At least in regards to who gets to go out and do the fun, dangerous shit and who has to stay home and lose at Wario Land for the hundredth time.”

Matt peers at you again. “And?”

“I wish you’d come out and say it.”

He laughs. “Come on. That’s not smart.”

Your lips screw downwards. Matt laughs again but it’s distant. Insincere. You gently kick his stomach with your foot, but he doesn’t remove his hand. If anything, it tightens just a bit.

“And what’s not smart about it? If fuckin’ Kira doesn’t kill me, this sexual tension might.”

It’s Matt’s turn to roll his eyes at you. “I think you’re just suffering from Stockholm Syndrome at this point.”

Your silence goads him on.

“Y’know. Mello and I are the only two you get to see anymore. You were bound to get all hot and bothered over one of us. I’m just the lesser of two evils.”

His teeth are almost too white for someone who smokes as often as he does.

“That’s not true.” You say to the tail end of his statement. He looks like he’s so amused that he’s almost in pain.

“I think a recovering alcoholic is a far better option than someone who gets his rocks off playing metaphorical chess with some albino shut-in, but maybe the times have changed.” Matt jokes. You think about his medallion keychain.

It’s been almost two years.

“That’s not it and you know it.” You scoff. His expression doesn’t falter, structurally, but something passes in his eyes. A feeling that you almost want to reach out and grab.

“Yeah, yeah.” He relents after a moment, “but if we talk about it-- _us_ \-- then it becomes real. And then we have to deal with it. And then you have to be some big grieving widow when Mello gets me killed.” He lights another cigarette. You hadn’t noticed he was done with his second.

“You’re not going to die.” You say, a bit more forcefully than needed.

“Sure I will.” He tips his head back and exhales directly at the ceiling. “Gonna go out in some big bang and then you--” he gestures in your direction with his cigarette, “--are gonna spend all of two weeks grieving before you realize you need to get _your_ ass in gear and forget _my_ sorry ass ever existed.”

 

* * *

 

Matt’s only ever right about half of the time, he always says. And you learn, six weeks later, that his last statement is not exempt from that habit.


End file.
